This poem comes from looking at the cross which hangs in our church’s sanctuary, and imagining it silhouetted against a gloomy sky – a bold, stark shape which would conjure dread in ancient times. Looking up at that shape which has become so familiar, I was struck by the fact that the shape was not always known as a picture of hope. No, if anything it was the cross-hairs of justice, the place of distortion and terror. Justice and grace met there, because grace had no merit until that justice was wrought on our behalf.
As such, it’s not a “nice” poem, but it is glorious. (Sorry mum).
Sign of horror
Shape of hope
On its beams
A tangled man
In its shade
Sand is choked
Red with wage
From every clan
On the upright
There he spoke
Hope for life
Across the land
Bars of wood
Sin’s rough yoke
On his shoulders
This his plan
Shape of horror
Sign of hope
Crossed with sorrow
God for man
Joe Spring writes 
And all for us. Emotive words Joe, I will also think about them when I see the cross from now on. X